the pleasures club
'I am haunted by how much our mothers do not know.
How a republic falls because of its backhanded deals,
stairwell secrets. My mother does not know I am lying
with a man who is darker than me, that we do not
have names for how we truly treat our bodies.
What we do with them. The other possesses me.
Without him the perception of me fails to exist.
My mother now is taking her sheers and cutting
through live shrimp. When I was a child she peeled
each flushed grape until only the pale fleshy bead
remained. She placed them onto a plate in one shining
mound, deseeded, in front of me. How I sucked and bled
the fruit of all their juice, hypnotized in front of the buzz
of television in each version of my childhood. I am
her daughter. This is certain. I am lying down with a man
who is darker than me and maybe this poem is my
real republic, my face is my face, or is it stolen from
my mother and hung over mine? If I were a dream
you could say my countenance was a string of flickering lights
made of teeth or an expression unraveling like a carpet
into a narrow river of another life. Does truth matter
when it's floating face up or face down?
The answer to this makes all the difference.'
"'Well chaps first I'd like to say a few vile things more or less at random, not only because it is expected of me but also because I enjoy it.'"
"'The refusal of emotion produces nervousness,' Bill said dipping into the barrel of decadent absinthe. 'Remember that. You are tense as a wire-walker, Hubert. If it is still possible to heave a sigh you should heave it. If it is still possible to rip out a groan you should rip it out. If it is still possible to smite the brow with anguished forefinger then you should let that forefinger fall.'"
- (Page 145)
I hated this.
Holes in the Sky
'I sigh for the heavenly country,
Where the heavenly people pass,
And the sea is as quiet as a mirror
Of beautiful beautiful glass.
I walk in the heavenly field,
With lilies and poppies bright,
I am dressed in a heavenly coat
Of polished white.
When I walk in the heavenly parkland
My feet on the pasture are bare,
Tall waves the grass, but no harmful
Creature is there.
At night I fly over the housetops,
And stand on the bright moony beams;
Gold are all heaven’s rivers,
And silver her streams.'
The Heavenly City
The result of being a dick and requesting a pony from the shops.
It's so pink...
I did love them as a kid.
When they still looked like horses and not anime puke:
But i am not a Brony.
I am not a fucking Brony.
I may however now need to re-watch the original movie.
For nostalgia's sake....
'What potion should I give the night so she’ll always wonder?
Her pounding heart’s a rider galloping from the burning wood.
Maybe my pharmacist is awake the next street over?
In a crucible of bone, snake tears mixed with herbs.
Should I hurry? Call the doctor? A heart like hers is rare.
And to tell the truth, if it shattered, what would I do?'
What potion should I give the night so she'll always wonder?
'The piano—that, too, was an adventure. A little girl tried to learn to play it. Her mother insisted, forced her to sit there and practice. Nothing came of it; stubbornness won out in the end, the stubbornness that protects us from the will of others, that defends our right to live our life the way we want. Even if it means life will turn out worse than anyone planned, will turn into a poor life—but it'll be one's own, however it is, even without music, even without talent.'
There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbour's Baby
(There's Someone in the House)
Once upon a pre-teen, my eternally tomboyish brainpan wouldn't be seen dead without a cap atop it.
I'd've been essentially naked without one.
It just didn't happen to the point where it's become a seasoned anecdote in reference to the history of me.
And my cap of choice? A red number with Tweety Pie and Sylvester emblazoned on the front.
It was as cool as it sounds.
But then adolescence hit and migraine hell commenced.
My skull is so pitiful that the tiniest amount of pressure can cause full-blown cranial warfare.
Even the fucking clouds give me headaches.
And thus, i put away childish things and resigned myself to a decade of unadorned noggin-based melancholy.
That was until Mr MRDR released this sucker and i thought, fuck it, that belongs on my head, migraines be damned.
We'll see if i'm still as headstrong - badoom tshh - when i'm buried under my duvet, clawing at my temples trying to prevent any brain matter seeping through my pores and attempting to not vomit out of my eyeballs.
Wish me luck?
"Our cabdriver tells us how Somalia is better
than here because in Islam we execute murderers.
So, fewer murders. But isn't there civil war
there now? Aren't there a lot of murders?
Yes, but in general it's better. Not
now, but most of the time. He tells us about how
smart the system is, how it's hard to bear
false witness. We nod. We're learning a lot.
I say—once we are close to the house—I say, What
about us? Two women, married to each other.
Don't be offended, he says, gravely. But a man
with a man, a woman with a woman: it would be
a public execution. We nod. A little silence along
the Southeast Corridor. Then I say, Yeah,
I love my country. This makes him laugh; we all laugh.
We aren't offended, says Josey. We love you. Sometimes
I feel like we're proselytizing, spreading the Word of Gay.
The cab is shaking with laughter, the poor man
relieved we're not mad he sort of wants us dead.
The two of us soothing him, wanting him comfortable,
wanting him to laugh. We love our country,
we tell him. And Josey tips him. She tips him well."
'I used to think the dead travelled away, out to some great distance, as they decayed, over weeks, or months, or years. I didn't believe in the stories they told at school, stories of heaven, little fables of the afterlife; I thought the dead went back to nothing, breaking down slowly, like fallen leaves, or the scatter of bones you find out in the marshland, the bones of a dog or a bird, whitening and breaking down in the sun, everything going to powder, then scattering on the wind.'
The Devil's Footprints
'As a bookshop owner, Archie was a bibliophile. He collected books, generally valuable first editions, for his own private collection, too. Their house was becoming more and more full of books. He would buy books and bring them back, like a hunter bringing back the corpses of small animals.'
The Book Collector
Business as usual.
And then Charles happened:
This is right before he slithered up next to me, scented my arm, bit my elbow, bit my knee and then bit the Preacher man.
Such. An. Asshole.
As a result i scampered inside to get away from the fluffy demon.
I do not live up to the claims of my sweatshirt:
- christine and the queens - saint claude
- seb jarnot // tina chang
- snow white
- martin stranka // stevie smith
- holychild feat. rac - power play
- rkcb feat. demo taped - open arms
- the girl with all the gifts
- ployart // sutzkever
- broken beak - nausea
- there once lived a woman who tried to kill her nei...
- broken beak // saint/humble/deliver
- penny dreadfulness
- sleep forever
- charles, meet burt
- tolmachev // mcdonough
- keaton henson // behaving
- the devil's footprints
- obvious child
- son lux - cage of bones
- dan mangan - whistleblower // forgetery redux (fea...
- irina albastra
- sleigh bells - rule number one
- sea of bees - willis
- luke o'sullivan
- the book collector
- candice tripp
- until the end of the world
- kate brinkworth
- the magicians
- twin atlantic - no sleep
- twin atlantic - gold elephant::cherry alligator (p...
- abigail larson
- jeff vandermeer // annihilation
- the garden
- actress - contagious
- preach and purr and petal
- ▼ June (43)
- ► 2015 (1108)
- ► 2014 (1923)
- ► 2013 (1842)
- ► 2012 (236)
- ► 2009 (120)
On the 17th of January 2013, i woke up to discover two unexpected gifts. I didn't see this coming. I didn't even think Armin ...
- Flaubert - George Orwell 1984 - Manual for Book Thieves - T.S. Eliot Just stealing some stuff from this isn't...
Esther Sarto Winter Painting
- about today
- alexey titarenko
- allison sommers
- art house
- bas jan ader
- beatrix potter
- beatriz vidal
- chris scarborough
- denis peterson
- design for mankind
- desiree dolron
- esra roise
- film grab
- fuco ueda
- gottfried helnwein
- insect lab
- jo fraser
- john casey
- levi van veluw
- little people
- london print club
- mark ryden
- maya kulenovic
- mother's basement
- my love for you
- noriko ambe
- phillip toledano
- pictures of walls
- piel de papel
- post secret
- rachel denny
- radical face
- sebastiaan bremer
- snjezana josipovic
- studio k
- su blackwell
- the honey trees
- tin foil sandwich
- tom bennett
- why rush?